


The Frog Prince

by Antimisma



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi, based on the Frog Princess in Slavic fairytales, some femRusame and ScotCan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 11:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimisma/pseuds/Antimisma
Summary: Based on the Slavic folktale of the frog princess. In which Prince Arthur seems to by all means be married to an ACTUAL FROG, though Francis eventually shows up, and also appearances by Baba Yaga and Koschei the Deathless from Russian fairytales.





	The Frog Prince

Once upon a time, in a kingdom along the Emerald Isles there lived a King with three sons. All were his joy and pride.

 

His eldest son had hair the colour of flame. His name was Alistair. He was as brave as he was boisterous, and all the people in the land loved him for his charm and laughter.

His second son had eyes the colour of clear, blue skies. His name was Alfred. He was strong enough to lift a boulder and throw it many yards away. And yet he never used his strength against others, except to defend the weak against the cruel.

But it was his youngest son, that the King doted on the most. His eyes were the green of the first tender shoots breaking through the frost for spring — just like his mother’s. And though the queen had passed away many years ago, the King love for her never lessened. So he took this love and showered it on his youngest, who never wanted for anything — except for his family to please, please stop coddling him constantly. His name was Arthur. And the years saw him growing wise, patient, healthy and gay.

(Not the cheerful kind by the way.)

And so it came to pass that on Prince Arthur’s eighteenth birthday, the King made a very important announcement. All the Princes would take part in the centuries-old tradition that the royal family used to choose wives for their princes.

* * *

 

“Father,” Arthur started, “I’m starting to have some doubts about this wedding tradition.”

“Hmm,” the jovial old king responded. “Come now, what could possibly go wrong.”

The old king had brought his three sons to the highest point in the castle overlooking the city. To each son, he gave an arrow. His eldest received a striking scarlet arrow with fletching that spread outwards like fire. His second received a shining blue arrow that would cut through the air like a falcon. As for his youngest, he received a light green arrow that was the precise shade of his evergreen eyes.

The old king instructed his sons,: “Take each arrow and nock it in your bows. Raise your nocked bows high above the city. Shout out the words: “It is good to rule over the city.” Then release your arrow. Whosoever returns here with your arrow shall be wed to thee, as your bride.”

Alfred and Alistair cheered.

But Arthur said, “Well, father, I don’t want to be the naysayer — but we’re firing our arrows straight into the city. Meanwhile, all the maidens in the land are gathered around the castle grounds in the hopes of catching an arrow. What if the arrow injures one of them.”

Alfred sniggered, “Don’t be such a worrywart.”

Alistair slung his arm around Arthur’s shoulder. “Aye its tradition, one which has existed for centuries! Before you were even a tingly feeling in dad’s nether regions.” Then, he rather rudely smacked Arthur’s behind.

“ _A stupid tradition,”_ Arthur was about to say, until his father said:

“It was this tradition that brought your dear, dear departed mother and I together. Oh how proud she would be if she saw you all now.” The old king was overcome with emotion and tears began to shine in his eyes .

_Abort,_ Arthur internally screamed. There was a special place in hell for people who made his dad cry, and marriage didn’t sound half as bad as that.

Just then, the clock tower by the castle struck seven times. It was time. Reluctantly, like his brothers, Arthur stepped forward with his bow and arrow. He whispered to the arrow to please, please to hit someone “with a stick” between their legs, that was as close in age as him as possible —  _without killing them_. Then with his brothers, he said the fateful words, ”It is good to rule over the city.” And they fired the arrow.

The brothers waited.

In a matter of minutes, a lovely lady arrived with the striking red arrow. She gave a graceful curtsey and introduced herself as Madeline. She was the daughter of a rich merchant from a kingdom up north, where the winters were mild but lasted all year around. Instantly, Alistair was besotted by the blushing maiden wrapped in the most exquisite fur cloths. He took her hand, and led her away — presumably to some secluded corner, where he would desperately beg for her permission to get up to some hanky panky.

Next, there was a thundering of hoofbeats. A shout. All in the royal entourage gasped, as a lady vaulted onto balustrade and bowed, presenting in her hands the blue arrow. Alfred was beside himself in excitement, staring at her in a mix of wonder and awe. “Dude, how did you do that,” he exclaimed. The lady huffed. “I’ve been able to do that since I was twelve.” The lady introduced herself as Anya from the Ural Mountains to the west, the women learned the art of archery, horse-riding and falconry. In a flash, she leapt off the balcony. As if entranced, Alfred leapt after her.

The old king was pleased with the wives-to-be of his two eldest sons. Madeline and her family would bring their riches and their business acumen to the boon of the kingdom’s treasury. Anya and her tribesmen would offer their military prowess to the kingdom (which had admittedly grown soft after decades of peacetime.

That left only Arthur, who was still waiting for someone to return with his arrow. He fidgeted uncomfortably as the hours passed. The old king tried to reassure his youngest that things would work out for the best. After all, hadn’t his elder brothers found wives who were far more suited to them than they could have ever chosen for themselves? And hadn’t he himself found the one true love of his life, thanks to the arrow. Still, Arthur felt uneasy. Gently, he began to ask a few more questions.

“What if no one comes by the end of today,” he softly inquired. “How long should I wait until I marry someone else? Or what if I’m married, and one day someone shows up with the arrow?”

“Or,” Arthur continued, trying to keep calm, “What if whoever brings the arrow isn’t at all appropriate for me to marry? Lets say if they were only a child, or someone decades upon decades older than me or someone reanimated after being unwittingly killed by the arrow or—“

“— a frog hopping towards us with your arrow in his mouth —“, the old king said.

“Erm yes father, though that is an  _oddly specific_ example.”

“No,” the old king exclaimed. “There is a frog hopping towards us with your arrow in its mouth.”

Sure enough, when Arthur looked, there it was: in the fading light of the setting sun a tiny frog was slowly, but resolutely hopping towards him. In its mouth, was an arrow that was the soft green of his eyes.

Arthur said nothing. He just stared. His mind was spinning. Sure, it had been difficult enough for him to wrap his mind around the fact that his future partner would be decided by firing an arrow into a crowd. But now, this _— this_ was throwing his mind in for a whole new bender.

“This has never happened before,” the old king gasped.

This did not at all stop the frog from hopping up to Arthur and dropping the arrow at his feet. Arthur looked at the frog. And then Arthur looked at his father. And then he looked at the frog. And he did a little mental calculation.

If he didn’t marry the frog, his silly, traditionalist father would have a existential crisis over everything. Including true love. Which he defined strictly in terms of arrows.

And then Arthur would be forced to marry a noblewoman, and have  _heirs._

Arthur looked at his upset father, and at the frog again. Then he sighed. He passed his father his handkerchief and gave him a comforting pat on the back.

Then, he bent down to his knees, so his gaze was more level with the amphibian. And he said with an equanimity that he certainly didn’t feel, “I accept your hand in marriage.”

His father’s looked at him in shock. “Don’t worry father, I’m sure the arrow has its truly  _magical_ reasons for choosing this…….outcome

The old King looked so relieved. Meanwhile, Arthur bitterly thought, he could hear the sound of his intelligence crashing deep, deep down into the negative numbers.

* * *

And so, Arthur showed up at the joint-wedding ceremony for himself and his brothers, with his wife-to-be literally in his hands.

It seemed that someone had sent word in advance about Arthur’s wife’s……peculiarities. Whether as a cruel joke or a futile attempt at normality, when they arrived the servants passed a tiny veil for the bride to wear during the ceremony, and an even tinier ring for Arthur to slip upon his wife’s…finger.

The priest read out their vows. His brothers and their wives said their I dos, as the frog croaked.

Then came the moment of truth. The priests uttered the words, “You may kiss the bride.” Arthur hoped desperately that it was  _that kind_ of fairytale. He solemnly snogged the frog with due diligence. But the frog remained as it was — a frog. It did not transform into a handsome, gay prince.

_Fuck,_  Arthur thought. Now there was no doubting it: he was well, and truly, wedded to an actual frog.

 

* * *

 

Arthur tried as best as he could to adjust to married life.

At first, he left the door of whatever room he placed the frog in open, and whispered encouragingly for it to hop away from the castle, back into the bisexual embrace of Mother Nature.

But then, the old king caught him in the act, and gave him his signature disappointed face. sad. It would have made flowers wilt. It would have made kicked puppies cry even harder. It also promised marriage counselling sessions for his youngest whom he dearly wanted to see in a happy and fulfilling relationship.

Quickly, Arthur commissioned for a soft, silk cushion to be made. He placed the frog upon the cushion, and then made a big show of carrying the frog with him everywhere. When asked what the fuck he was doing, he put on his most deadpan face and would respond that he simply  _couldn’t bear_  to be apart from his amphibious wife.

This made his father happy again, even as his credibility amongst the governing and economic elite tanked.

Since everyone already believed he was half-way to loony town, then Arthur felt that he might as well go all the way.

In council meetings proposals were derailed by idiots who would reply in rebuttal, “Prince Arthur, your wife is a frog.” Well now, Arthur didn’t care. In fact, he would now stare very hard at them, perfectly mimicking the unusually penetrating look of the frog, who would also stare at the offending person atop the cushion. This was often disturbing enough to shut them up for the rest of the meeting. Or better yet: when he was about to be accosted by another pedant who was about to bore him with long-winded propositions, he would handle it like so:

**(Annoying) Advisor** : Salutations Prince Arthur I have an unprecedented and weighty matter that is imperative for you to hear and deliberate upon.

**Arthur** : Excellent! Why don’t you consult my wife, she gives out timely advice

**(Annoying) Advisor** : Errr…….

**Arthur:**  Are you questioning her authority?

And then Arthur would walk away, free — leaving said noble to apologise for their insult to his wife, and make their circuitous petition to the frog. It was also a cheerful coincidence that every now and then, the frog would keep croaking. Arthur would pop over, and usually by then said noble would be getting to the point.

 

Eventually, they fell into a comfortable enough routine.

In the morning, Arthur would drop the frog by the pond in the royal garden, so that it could……socialise??…with the other frogs??…as he trained with his father’s knights in the nearby courtyard. He would drop by later to collect the frog by putting the cushion on the ground and waiting for the frog to hop back onto it.

In the afternoons, he would take the frog with him to meetings in the high council, and in town halls, where he could exchange flat looks with the creature — as he parleyed with aristocrats, or sought out feedback from the people about policies.

At night, he would return to his bedchamber, and set the frog and cushion by his desk, as he steadily worked through stacks of petitions and policy papers. Somehow, as he became utterly focused in his work, the lamp in the room would go out. He was goddamn sure it was the frog. The creature somehow always had the most smug expression on its froggy face — (if frogs could have that range of facial expressions) — as Arthur fumbled, found, and held a tiny matchstick to light up the room. These sort of things never happened until the frog arrived. Then, he would make his way to his bed, and collapse exhausted.

And so the the days flew by — strange but idyllic.

* * *

 

Of course, his father had to throw a wrench in the works.

 

Late one evening, he summoned all the members of the royal family to assemble in his throne room.

“I am very proud of my daughter-in-laws and all their accomplishments,” the old king declared.

Madeline gracefully curtsied, Anya handsomely bowed, as the two elder princes gazed after them adoringly. The frog, meanwhile, sat stoically on the cushion as Arthur awkwardly continued to hold it level to the old king on his throne so they could make eye contact.

“Thus, I would like to have something to remember them by. I would like the three of you,” he said looking at the ladies (plus frog), “to make me a dress shirt. It would warm my heart to be able to wear such a token made by beloved new daughter-in-laws.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Madeline replied, deferentially. Beside her, Anya gave a cool thumbs up.

“Father”, Arthur groaned. “Is it even considered a gift if you ask them to make the gifts for you?”

The stupid frog said nothing. It just sat there, stoically — which the old king gladly took as consent. “I look forward to seeing all your gifts,” he said, quite sincerely to the two ladies (and the frog).

Alfred and Alistair shot him sympathetic looks, as Arthur stormed back to his bedchamber, still carrying the frog on its cushion.

It made no sense why the king wanted to hold a competition now ( ~~guilt~~ ), to try distinguish one of his daughter-in-laws ( ~~the frog~~ ), through a skill he knew that his two elder daughter-in-laws sucked at ( ~~guilt~~ ).

But whatever. Arthur didn’t care. His head was already pounding with a headache, as he buried it in the pillow on his bed, and decided that he might as well get another early night’s sleep.

* * *

 

The next day, Arthur was woken up by the sensation of his arm brushing something smooth and soft. He pried his eyes open to take a look at what it was. Then he jolted up.

It was a shirt. An actual shirt. Arthur held it closer to his eyes, and to the window’s light for closer inspection.

The shirt shimmered gold, with paler, intricate patterns. Arthur ran his fingers through the fabric, stunned by how thin and how smooth it was.

And not far, at the foot of the bed, was the frog. It croaked.

Arthur blinked. It was way too early in the morning for this. It was best not to question things. After all, he was already married to a frog. That was already peak weirdness. This was just a minor footnote. And like all footnotes, it could be ignored without much loss to his own knowledge.

Arthur took the shirt along with him (and the frog) to breakfast. He handed it to his father. “My wife made this,” Arthur said.

His father gasped. “You made this for me?” He asked the frog, his eyes growing shiner and shiner with tears.

The frog said nothing.  _How modest,_ Arthur thought with narrowed eyes, as the other members of his family crowded around the frog, congratulating it on its superb weaving and needlework.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, this was just the beginning. The Old King, pleased with his new, favourite made-by-a-frog shirt, decided: why wouldn’t he want more of such wonderful gifts?

And so, he summoned his three daughter-in laws to the court.

“I would like each of you to make me one dish for breakfast.”

“Father,” Arthur groaned. “My wife doesn’t even have opposable thumbs. How is she supposed to cook?”

“The same way she sewed me this wonderful shirt,” declared the King.

Alfred and Alistair giggled. “He got you there,” Alfred added, as if that made sense of the absurdity of everything.

Fed up, Arthur stormed to the kitchen and plopped the cushion down with the frog. “You heard him,” Arthur said sternly. “Go make him a sandwich, frog.” Then looking around, he awkwardly reminded the staff that the frog was his wife, plus they were not French, so they needed to refrain from cooking the frog  _please_.

The next day, Arthur woke up to find a platter of pastries at the foot of his bed. Again, Arthur promised himself not to question things too hard. Dutifully, he picked up the tray of food with one hand, and carried the frog with the other.

He made it just in time for breakfast. There was an empty bowl off stew on the table, and the King appeared to be relishing a delicious bowl of soup. “Ah,” the King clapped his hand. “Perfect, I have just enough space left in my stomach for one last meal by one more daughter-in-law.”

Arthur placed the pastry platter on the table. All in attendance gasped. Now that Arthur looked closely, he too felt awed at the craftsmanship that went into making these pastries. The texture, the sugar icing — all went into making the parties look dainty yet fantastical — like what a fairy queen might have for dinner.

“Did you do this,” Arthur asked the frog with wide eyes. The frog said nothing. It merely looked smug, if frogs could look smug.

* * *

Finally, the King gathered the royal family into the throne room once more.

Nodding his head enthusiastically, he began to speak, “It has been an honour for me to witness the myriad talents and skillsets of my new, beloved daughter-in-laws. But now, I would like to ask the three of you”, and he turned to the Prince’s wives. “What challenge would the three of you like to see next.”

“What about a dance competition, Princess Anya suggested.

“Yessssss,” Alfred exclaimed.

“No,” Arthur shouted back.

“I feel like you’re not treating your wife with the respect she deserves,” Princess Madeline suddenly righteously rebutted. “She is already a far better cook and tailor than you will ever be. You have no right to decide if she would like to be part of the competition.” Hanging onto her arm, Alistair nodded with a shit-eating grin, like the scum of the earth Arthur always knew he was.

“Well, what do you think,” the King asked the frog.

The frog croaked.

“A dance-off it is,” the old king exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

“Fine,” Arthur shouted, throwing his hands in the air. He was just one man, with a frog wife, fighting his entire family who was completely crazy. The fact that he was still trying to resist was not a sign of sanity, but a sign in and of itself that he was utterly delusional.

Soon, the day came for the “dance-off”. As usual, the old king blew everything up. What was supposed to be a straightforward dancing competition turned into a full on royal ball, with all important personages streaming into the lavishly decorated palace, as the scent of delicious foodstuffs wafted into the air.

Arthur, of course, strategically positioned himself beside the drinks table, and prepared for a night of wine, more wine, and lots of wine.

Finally, there was a ringing of a bell. All gathered before the king onstage. “Today, my lovely daughter-in-laws will all be dancing for you all. Starting with the lovely princess wedded to my youngest.” The King picked the frog off the cushion, and placed it in the spotlight.

There were gasps, and then a clamour, as music began to swell all around them. No doubt, everyone was dying to see the frog try to dance for them.

Arthur rolled his eyes and took another sip of alcohol. The frog continued to sit there placidly for a few moments as the crowd watched.

Then suddenly, its mouth opened wide. A human hand emerged.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, and set his wine aside. Sure enough, the rest of an arm emerged, followed by another arm. Then, the arms began to push against the floor, and the rest of the body came out of the frog.

There, stood a handsome man dressed like a Prince. And the Prince began to dance the tune of the music.

“OH MY GOD,” Alfred exclaimed, proof that Arthur hadn’t completely lost his mind. Not that he needed that much more proof.

The Prince was too perfect, utterly, utterly perfect in every conceivable way — and also in ways that Arthur could never even begin to imagine on his own.

Arthur followed every flourish of the Prince’s arms, every shift of the Prince’s lithe form with an intensity, as if his own life depended on it, as if this was was what all the moments of longing in his life built up to……

“Prince’s Arthur’s wife is a  _man_ “ a noble suddenly exclaimed, scandalised, snapping Arthur out of his reverie. A murmur of assent arose amongst those at the ball, followed by a ripple of unease.

A sharp pang of desperation shot through Arthur.  _No,_  Arthur thought.  _Not when he was so close_. Then, he was struck with inspiration. “The arrow,” Arthur said with an ardent and religious fervour. “Are you questioning  _the arrow_.“

Instantly, the Old Kings head whipped around, seeking out those who would question the sacred judgement of  _the arrow_. The tittering groups of noblemen gulped and shut up. So that was that.

And besides, with each moment that passed, the Princes’ dance grew ever more graceful. By the time he finished and bowed, there was not a dry eye left in the room. Arthur, in particular, was especially ecstatic. Especially when the Prince came up to him, extended a hand, and “uttered, may I have this dance, Prince Arthur?”

Everything, wrong, everything broken, everything jagged about the world suddenly clicked together — like the pieces of a puzzle when Arthur let the Prince take his hand and lead him into a waltz. All was happiness, and light, and music swirling around him. Everything in existence seemed to narrow down to himself and the Prince. Hopes and longings were caught between their breaths and utterances.

The handsome Prince introduced himself as Francis. When they finally grew tired of dancing, the two of them retired to their rooms, to do what couples get up to when they are passionate and alone. The Princes Alfred and Alistair whooped and hollered, as the Princesses Anya and Madeline gave them shippy gazes.

**Author's Note:**

> And so ends part I! There's still another half of the story to be told :P In other words, my bad I got too carried away by the comedic setup of Prince Arthur getting married to what he genuinely thinks is a frog for a few months. 
> 
> But stay tuned for part II where there will be further complications in the life of Prince Arthur, crazy old witches living in huts that move on chicken legs, and an immortal sorcerer that uses his near-omnipotence to force romantic interests on interminable dates.


End file.
